


The Silver Lining

by Smithy_Crystal



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF!John, BAMF!Lestrade, BAMF!Sherlock, Crime, Daddy!John, Drama, F/M, I had an idea and went with it, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Parentlock, WIP, everyone's a BAMF in this case, just those boys being boys, mentions of bullying, mentions of child abuse, the usual, very very small but still there, violence (NOT TO BABY!!), you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-01-21 12:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12457377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smithy_Crystal/pseuds/Smithy_Crystal
Summary: John and Mary broke up, before they had even begun some say, but what is left behind is a bundle of joy.Mary leaves the child in John's care and disappears.What follows is a meltdown, panic and then some, but Sherlock is a lot more on board than one would have thought.But what happens when word gets out and the criminals of London understand that Sherlock now has a secondary weakness?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea and I ran with it.
> 
> I now have two WIP on the go so updates will be as much as possible, I just wanted to get this one started. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

It was just any old Tuesday for John. He'd gotten up around 5am and was ready to start his day. He was not normally up this early, but then again, he would defiantly not fall back to sleep. Not after last night's (This morning's?) nightmare. So instead he had gotten up, trotted down the stairs and headed straight for the kitchen. The flat was dark, almost hitting winter and Christmas not too far away so there was no early morning light, no birds, just the whistling of the wind as it battered against the windows.

 

John had made his tea and went to sit in his chair, resting the hot beverage against the arm and stared into the darkness. He was still moping about, his last relationship had not really worked out. Mary she was called. She was beautiful, always made John laugh, and she was there to hold his hand through the few months Sherlock had been gone. But as soon as he had returned after 6 months of being dead, John went back with him. Mary was not amused. An ultimatum was given and in John's defense, if she had loved him as much as she had proclaimed to, then she would not have made him choose. Right?

 

They had been together for five months, met in a local pub one night when John was drowning his sorrows. They got chatting and one thing led to another and John had spent the night with her, in her bed. This was the case most nights for five months, the Sherlock returned from the dead and whisked John away into the night. He had still been seeing Mary for a couple more months before had given him an ultimatum. So he chose, and that was just over a month ago.

 

Just as he went to sip his tea, the door bell went. John stiffened. It was so early in the morning, he wouldn't think a client would come at this time, especially with the brutal cold wind howling. But then again, cases never wait for anyone really. john had placed his cup against the small table by his chair, just as Sherlock exited his bedroom, hair in all directions and rubbing sleep from his eyes, "tell them to piss off!" Sherlock had called after John when he went to get the door before Mrs Hudson woke.

 

When the door opened, the wind and cold hit John dead on, but there was no one there. John sighed and frowned, he was just about to shut the door before he had heard the noise. It was a cry, a new born baby cry and John looked down to the step. There, in front of 221B Baker Street was a Moses basket. Inside was a baby, barely even a month old by the looks of her, and an envelope sat on top of a mass of pink blankets. John was startled and he reached down to get a better look. The envelope had his name on. His. It can't be.

 

He swallowed hard and lifted the Moses basket by the handle and carried it inside, closing the door with his foot. He continued up the stairs, never taking his off of the baby in the basket, or the envelope against the blanket.

No that she was in the warmth, the cries had settles to sniffles just as john entered the room, he ignore Sherlock completely and placed the basket on his chair.

"John?" Sherlock asked, watching with interest. He scanned the basket and his heart hammered against his chest, this is not something he had planned for. But he his his panic well and watched his best friend closely.

 

John had opened the letter, read quickly and crushed the paper in his hands. The child was his. The child wasn't even named. Born two weeks ago, premature, Mary had left her at his door step and vanished. she had mentioned she did not want anything to do with the child, but had care to know John wanted children at some point, and would make a great father. The note had confirmed that she will not be back to make a claim for their daughter and only had one wish, that he will look after her.

 

Those months leading up to Sherlock's return, even the months following, while he was with Mary, there was something. Just something. Something he could never quite put his finger on. She had gained a little weight, but had always worn baggy clothing, refused to be naked around him and refused to change around him. But still, how could he have not realised!? Was he really that blind!? If he had known, he would have fought harder for their relationship, he would have tried to make it work. maybe that was why she had hid it so perfectly.

 

"John"? Sherlock's whisper startled John out of his musing, and he turned to face him. "Well?" Sherlock asked carefully, his voice soft, gentle as though he was approaching a wounded animal.

 

"She's mine." John whispered back. "I'm a father, and she's mine."

There was silence for a moment before John broke it once again, "What the fuck do I do Sherlock?!"

"We. John, we." Sherlock placed an arm around his best friend and pulled him into an embrace. "We will think of something I asure you. But first, she'll need a name."

 

"Rosie." John answered without skipping a beat. "I was always hoping to have a child, always wanted a little girl by the name of Rosie, after my mother. God rest her soul. John whispered, not wanting to wake the now resting baby.

 

"Rosie. It suits her perfectly." Sherlock gave John a little squeeze and then moved away, swooping down to grab his phone, his fingers flying across the keys. "We will need clothing, bottles, formula. We'll need baby proofing and the like. I'm sure I have a few favors to call in."


	2. Chapter 2

It was a very long and busy morning for the boys of Baker Street. Not only did Sherlock have to adapt to John and his hidden sentiment, but they now had to arrange themselves around a small little bundle of tears. Because that's all she seemed to do, other than sleep, was to cry her frustrations out on the world. He watched as John struggled to come to terms with the new addition to their lives. Their lives? Surly it would be John's life? And not for the first time that morning, Sherlock's heart had frozen in terror.

He couldn't lose him, not again. Not after all that time they had spent apart. He had died for that man, and he can't lose him now. But what if he did? What if John realised Sherlock is not the kind of man he wanted around his daughter? What if John moved out because it wasn't safe? What if..? What if..?

 

"Sherlock!?" The nudge had came without warning and he blinked a number of different times, his phone held loosely in his hand as he gazed somewhat dumbly at John. His John, conductor of light. But he's frowning. Why is he frowning? "Are you alright?"

Alright? Of course he was not alright? Wait. John was holding Rosie a second ago, where is she? His eyes flickered around the living room, it was a mess of boxes and rubbish and Mycroft and ... Wait, Mycroft!?

"What are you doing here!?" Sherlock hissed, ignoring John for the time being. How long was he in his mind palace for this time?

"Now Sherlock." Mycroft droned. "You of all people should know that getting a child into 221B would not escape my notice."

Sherlock ignored John's pottering about in order to glare at his brother, "Stop spying on me!" He hissed, keeping his voice down. He knew that if the child was not in the living room in close view then she must be resting someplace else. John's room most likely, after all the man was her father, and he did have a new monitor clasped to his belt as he drifted between the two brothers.

"I only came to offer my congratulations." Mycroft smirked softly, the fat git must know what turmoil Sherlock's mind palace is in right now. "And also offer up some of my contacts for support. After all, not everyone in London can owe you a favor Sherlock. Getting a pram and a cot is easy enough. But clothes and toys, not so much. But not to worry, Anthea has plenty going spare."

"Yes. Yes, her niece. It's not that we need hand-me-downs Mycroft. We can mange." Sherlock growled.

"Ah yes, of course. You may have a trust fund Sherlock, but I know John does not, therefore .."

"Therefore, you found that you hand too stick your nose in where it is not wanted. John does not, and will not be on his own in this. We don't need you and your sniveling. Good day."

Mycroft had scoffed, "you? You Sherlock? You are going to help Doctor Watson with his new born .."

"And what is so wrong with that?" John intercepted, cradling his child in his arms. He must have retrieved her from up stairs, and made a bottle as he was holding towards her lips gently, coaxing her into drinking before looking back to Mycroft. "I honestly appreciate the help and the gifts Mycroft, but as Sherlock had said, we will manage. I'm ... I mean we," He looked down to Rosie, then to Sherlock for a second longer before staring back at Mycroft, "are here to stay. If we are wanted that is?" Again, back to Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn't help it. He grinned.

"Of course." Mycroft knew defeat. "If you both need anything, anything at all. Do not hesitate to ask."

"Yes." Again John looked to Mycroft and shuffled nervously a bit. "Our job can be a bit dangerous at times, but she is safe within these walls. You can remove the surveillance within the flat, but not outside the flat. If we are out and Rosie is within these walls with a nanny, or Mrs Hudson or whoever, and you see something that is amiss outside, you contact one of us straight away, no questions asked, and you get someone over here if we can't make it quick enough."

John stared hard at Mycroft, holding Rosie a little closer, protecting her as much as he could. Sherlock knew he was avoiding him just now but they will have the rest of the day to talk if they need to.

Mycroft nodded once and left the property. Sherlock saw John relax a little more and returned to his chair. Sherlock followed, sitting in his own as if on auto pilot.

"You had escaped into you head for well over five hours Sherlock, just after sending out a million text. I don't know what you did but there were deliveries and handy men and even some homeless kids all rushing about, setting up a cot, playpen, I think there's a pram down stairs. Mrs Hudson was beside herself. I showed her the note and explained the situation. I think she's happy. Then your brother turned up, clothes toys and nappies, bottles and formula. Even had a home visit from a doctor. She's doing well for being early." John was rambling. why was he rambling? He only did that when he was overly nervous, or scared.

OH!

"John!" Sherlock startled John from his ramblings. "I was without you for six months, I'm not about to abandon you now, just because things have changed a little."

"A little? This is huge Sherlock. A baby changes everything."

"Then we will adapt. I meant what I said when I returned. I'm never leaving you behind again. I'd be lost without my blogger."

With that they both giggled softly, trying not to wake the little girl from her slumber, and Sherlock breathed easily once again. He will adapt. He meant every word, he would be lost without John, but not for reasons John suspects. Sherlock is not as unfeeling as people around him tend to think. It's not that he doesn't care about sentiment, or that he just doesn't care. It's just that he cares too much.


	3. Chapter 3

John was beside himself all day. He would pace the living room when Rosie was resting. Or he would pace the living room holding a crying Rosie, or a tired Rosie, or even a hungry Rosie. With or without her, John would pace the room. It was beginning to get to Sherlock, just a little bit. So after three, possibly another four hours of this pacing, Sherlock had, had enough. He rose from his seat and grabbed john by his arms, effectively stopping the pacing.

"Stop!" Sherlock forced out, staring at his best friend, taking in the worry, fear, panic. Everything that John was going through at that very moment screamed at Sherlock. "You are not alone. You and Rosie will stay here for as long as you need to. Forever and longer if needs be. No one is going to hurt her, no one is going to take her away from you, I promise."

"You promise?" John replied, his voice soft but shaking. His hands were shaking. His whole body trembling as he looked desperately at Sherlock.

"That is my vow and always will be. I will always be here for the two of you. I will protect you always and I will die before anyone hurts her." Sherlock replied and pulled John into a hug once more. He was being overly sentimental today, but he could see John needed it.

"I'm sorry Sherlock." John sighed, and pulled away gently, staring back at Sherlock. "I was not really expecting this."

"Was any of us?" Sherlock laughed softly and moved towards the kitchen. He reached for two mugs and set the kettle to boil. "You know, there are a lot of experiments to conduct now we have a child in the house. Just think of all the fun .."

"No!" John glared from the entry way into the kitchen, his arms crossed. "No experimenting on my daughter."

"But John, just think of it." Sherlock pleaded. "She's like an empty slate."

"No, and that's final." He accepted the mug from Sherlock just as Rosie stirred softly from her nap. John went to put his mug back down, but Sherlock was faster. He headed straight up the stairs, just as he had heard Lestrade come in through the front door.

"We have a case, my little Rosie." Sherlock whispered as he gently lifted the child from the crib and held her close. She wasn't crying, just wanted to be held.

-0-

 

It had taken a lot longer to get to the crime scene as Sherlock would have liked. They had to explain the appearance of the little girl in the flat to Lestrade, and then Sherlock had to fight them both in getting John to come with him. Sherlock had refused to work without John, John had refused to leave Rosie behind and Lestrade had refused to let a new born baby onto a crime scene. It was tedious. In the end, John had reluctantly handed Rosie to Mrs Hudson, with strict instructions to call if there was anything, and Sherlock had to practically drag the man from the flat.

They had finally made it to the crime scene, an abandoned factory, not too far from civilization. The factory was due for demolition some time that day, so obviously the police had assumed the killer had dumped the body here in hopes it would be lost under the rumble and written off as a terrible accident. It was the manor in which the young female was killed that made Lestrade get Sherlock, no matter what the other's on the force had thought about him.

The body itself was a female, wearing a lot of pink. Lestrade did look pale when he got Sherlock, and refused to mention anything about the case. Just explaining that he needed to see it for himself.

"Jesus" He heard John whisper beside him as he lowered himself towards the body, taking in every bit of detail. yes, she was wearing pink, but she was too old to represent their first case together. She was brutally stabbed several times, loss of blood being the course of death. What stuck out most was the pink phone held loosely in the victims hand. Sherlock reached for it and frowned. It was set on John's blog post, 'A Study in Pink'. That was when he finally looked up, his eyes locking onto the message on the wall.

"I told you Sherlock." Lestrade was saying. "You needed to see this one."

 Sherlock paled and stood stock still. He ignored Lestrade but turned to face John. John who had gone as white as a sheet. His phone in a trembling hand as he spoke calmly to Mrs Hudson. Once he had hung up, he quickly fired off a text. Sherlock knew he was getting Mycroft to keep an extra eye on the flat. When John nodded, Sherlock turned towards the crime scene, taking in every detail, as he would any other case. He then went to inspect the message that was left him him against the wall.

'Did you Miss Me. M xoxo' written in the woman's blood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! I honestly cannot believe how many hits this has already, I'm honestly touched. I do hope you're enjoying this. If there's any errors that jump out let me know. 
> 
>  
> 
> This was done using my phone, during break times at work. Enjoy

The case was a dead end, just as Sherlock knew it would be, but that didn't stop him from being agitated with everyone and everything. The dead female was a Jane Doe. The wedding ring was planted, the way she was dressed was just for show. Having to explain all this to the idiots that made Scotland Yard was very tedious. And Sherlock had ensured everyone knew of this. 

At some point into the early evening, John had gripped his arm tightly, grounding him and bringing back from a major explosion with Anderson. The sky was darkening and John was getting fidgety. It was no wonder, what with the message and his daughter at home. So Sherlock gave his deductions at lightening speed and whisked John away in a taxi. 

 

Neither of of them spoke as they headed back to 221B Baker Streets, Sherlock slipping completely into his mind palace once they were home. He played that day on the roof of Barts over and over again. Watching from different angles, analysing every corner, every word, every little blink. But there was nothing. Sherlock could not understand it. Moriarty had committed suicide that day. He put a gun in his mouth and ate a bullet. There was no coming away from that.

 

"Copycat killer," Sherlock muttered, finally coming out of his head. The room was bathed in a full light, John was in his chair, baby monitor on the table next to him. Rosie must be in bed, it was late into the evening now. "Has to be." 

John looked up from his laptop, a raised brow but a smirk on his face. "Or. It could be twins?"

"Twins?" Sherlock scoffed. "It's never twins John."

-0-

 

John was a mess most of the evening. His nerves were on edge at the crime scene, seeing the body like that, the message. His face had paled he rang Mrs Hudson straight away. Rosie was fine, of course she was. But still, needed to be sure. He saw Sherlock watching him so he nodded, ended the call with Mrs Hudson and texted Mycroft to get someone at the flat ASAP. 

With that done, he had eased a little, but not a lot. He was still on edge, biting his tongue a lot harder than normal. He still couldn't understand how the bloody police thought this was a dump and run. This was staged obviously, even John saw that. Even a monkey would be able to see that the building being assigned for demolition was nothing but a coincidence. 

After what had seemed like an age, Sherlock spewed his deductions and they were finally on their way home. John couldn't keep still and he was worse the closer they got. As soon as 221B was in view, John exited the cab and went straight for Mrs Hudson's flat. Finally, with Rosie in his arms he could relax a little and he made his way after Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock had had checked out so John looked after his little girl. Fed her, bathed her and changed her. Then he settled her down for the night and got to work. He was not idle during Sherlock's adventure. He was, as Mary had put it, obsessed. But he had gathered more intel than anyone else because he knew where to look. Or rather, it was a happy incident. 

"Copy cat killer," Sherlock finally muttered. "Has to be."

John smirked a little and stared. He had his findings on the laptop in front of him, ready to argue his case. If anyone can pick it apart, it would be Sherlock. But then again, this was solid evidence. 

"Or. It could be twins."

"Twins? It's never twins."

John was ready for this and rose from his seat. He deposited the laptop on Sherlock and began to pace the room as he spoke, ensuring Sherlock was following the evidence provided to him. 

"Well actually, this could be twins. I wasn't completely bone idle while you were gone you know. Mary said I was obsessed. Maybe I was but I rufused to believe you would just jump because you were a fake. Bollocks to that." John sighed and pointed to the laptop. "I made Mycroft give me everything he had on Moriarty and I mean everything. I even took Kitty Riley's article and picked it apart. I hadn't lived with you for years without picking up on a few things. Plus I'm a doctor. And looking back when we met Richard, it's so blaringly obvious they're identical twins. You'll see the school photo posted on the social media page. There's a school reunion. Maybe we should hit it up."

Sherlock didn't speak. His eyes flickered across the screen in front of him. His hands shifting over the mouse, pulling up different bits of information at a time. "Did you show this to Mycroft?" He finally answered. 

 

John shrugged and shook his head. "You turned up and I just ... Forgot about it. Until today."

"Twins," Sherlock whispered and shook his head slowly. "Well. That's one way to fake your death I suppose."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should've mentioned that in this chapter is talk of bullying and suicide attempts.

Sherlock worked best with everything in front of him. He never understood how John could work from the laptop alone. He needed to see everything, every bit of data laid out in front of him. It was easier to deduce when he had all the data. The cases were obviously Moriarty haunting him, taunting him. Possibly even laughing at him. But why now? Sherlock had been back for a couple of months now, so why not the day he returned? What was he planning?

 

Sherlock stared at the two portrait photos that were now pinned to the wall of 221B Baker Street. Pinned around them were articles and crimes and even the petty little thefts. Everything that John had found he had pinned to the wall. There was a lot he discarded as pointless, which now lay burning in the fire place. He picked apart most of John's work, but not in a bad way. He couldn't. John had actually, possibly by complete accident, stumbled upon something outstanding. He will always be Sherlock's conductor of light, even if he was an idiot.

 

“Tell me again how you came to this conclusion.” Sherlock demanded gently, not turning to look at John. He heard the smaller man move from his chair and come to stand beside him.

 

“Well, not long after your .. Well, hiatus .. Yes, lets call it hiatus. Anyway, not long after that, about two weeks, maybe three. I received an email from a fan. Well she said she liked the stories, and she knew you weren't a fake. Kitty's article had sold like hot cakes by the way. Everyone breathed in that pile of rubbish. I sued for slander by the way. I won in case you were bothered. Mycroft had the best ...”

 

“Rambling John!” Sherlock hissed.

 

“Yeah. Right, sorry.” John scratched his chin and breathed deeply, catching his breath. “Anyway, this fan had said she knew you were for real. Not because she met you or because of the blog, but because she knew the Moriarty twins. That's what she said. So obviously I took the bate and we'd been emailing back and forth. She told me they were inseparable, sometimes even traded places just to fool the teachers. Richard was bullied a lot because of his autism, which caused him to develop anxiety. Vicky had said that the only escape for Richard was acting classes. He was a sweet kid she said, but tried to commit suicide a couple of times.” Sherlock stared at the photo of Richard Brooke, now knowing to be Richard Moriarty.

 

“Carl Powers. Jim had to stop him from laughing. He never said who he was laughing at.” Sherlock did feel a pang of pity for Richard, only slightly. After all, he still threatened His John.

 

“Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, she spoke of Jim being a little creepy. Her words. He would lash out, make people beg and plead for their stuff back. He'd take their dinner money of course, make them pay for his services. Even back then he was building a web. Vicky even said she believed he had the teachers in his back pockets too. The school was never the same when them two started.” John shivered and motioned to the two pictures of the two boys.

 

“Every identical twin has slight differences, not easy to spot. But then again, I'm a doctor. Plus I've been staring at these two for months! I know the differences.”

 

“Such as Jim's eyes are slightly closer together, Richard has thinning hair, smaller lips, Jim is a little taller, more muscular. Richard's skinny..”

 

John laughed. “No. I was actually going to say that these two are a rare set of twins, in that Richard has brown eyes, Jim has blue.”

 

Sherlock stared at the two photos a little more and grinned. “Oh. Of course. How could I have ever missed that!?”

 

“You told me something once.” John mused, staring at Sherlock.

 

“Is that so?” Sherlock stared back, his heart beating that little bit faster the closer John got. Soon enough, there was hardly any space between them at all. John had to crane his neck slightly. Sherlock swallowed.

 

“Yeah,” John whispered, “You said, 'There's always something'. The first day we met.” And John grinned. He sly, only-for-Sherlock grin.

 

Sherlock knew if he bent down a little more he could close the gap between them.

 

Sherlock blinked and swallowed. No one moved. It felt like an age, and yet only ten seconds had passed. Then Rosie cried.

 

Sherlock jumped and moved around John, “I'll get her, you make her midnight bottle,” and with that Sherlock vanished up the stairs, heading for the crying child. When he entered the room, he quickly scooped her into his arms and held her close against his chest, supporting her head against his shoulder as he bounced her gently. “You have the worst timing, little one..” Sherlock whispered and settled to sit on the bed, just as John entered with the night time feed. He passed the bottle to Sherlock without a word and sat beside him on the bed, so close their legs were touching.

 

Sherlock refused to look at John, instead he chose to watch Rosie intently as he lay her in his arm, using his now free hand to feed her the bottle. He watched her and he watched her, silently promising never to let anyone or anything hurt her. Ever.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

John wasn't quite sure when he became so comfortable with being so close to Sherlock, or even when he became aware of his own feelings for Sherlock. Maybe it was after loosing him, and then getting him back that made him realise, or maybe it was having a daughter, but whatever it was, he was sure of one thing. He felt something for Sherlock Holmes, something more than friendship. Something more than brotherhood. But he could not define it. It was more than love, more than a crush, it was just something more.

 

He watched Sherlock as he retold the story of Vicky, he watched Sherlock as he leaned in that little bit close. He watched as he whispered gently, looking out for all the signs Sherlock had told him to look out in the past. He saw Sherlock swallow hard, he saw his pupils dilate a little, and he saw the little vain in Sherlock's neck pulse. Then Rosie cried, and he stepped back.

 

He watched Sherlock leave with a sigh and went to make a bottle. Maybe now was not the time to terrify Sherlock. He wasn't exactly sentimental. Well, that was bull shit. He was very sentimental. John would love to bet that the grown man cared a lot. Why else would the man sky dive off a building to safe the life of the three people who he cared about the most. If Sherlock was the sociopath he claimed to be, he would have walked away from that rooftop without so much as a backward glance. He wouldn't have cared if John, Lestrade and Mrs H downstairs had all fallen for the lie and believed he was a fake. No. Sherlock was no sociopath, John knew. It was yet another wall the man had built over the years.

 

Once upstairs in the bedroom, he watched Sherlock with Rosie, his leg touching the other man's. He watched as Rosie fell asleep in his arms and watched as Sherlock put her back in her cot gently. No one could ever tell John this man didn't care.

 

“So,” John whispered, shifting slightly against his bed. Now that he was here, he could feel tiredness seeping into his bones. He yawned and moved to climb into bed, snuggling within the covers but still watching Sherlock. “What do we do from here?” He asked.

 

“We find Jim, and we stop him.” Sherlock whispered, the promise in his voice. “We'll stop him before he can rebuild.” Sherlock moved back to John's bed, sitting down on the edge once again. “After everything I had done in order to destroy what he had built, something tells me he's out for revenge. He'll make a mistake and we'll catch him, along with his second in command.”

 

“Wait. What?” John sat up against his head board. “What do you mean, 'second in command'?”

 

“Well, me and Mycroft are certain that Colonel Sebastian Moran is ...”

 

“Now wait a second!” John hissed, his entire body going stiff, but he ensured he kept his voice down, he didn't want to wake Rosie. “Colonel Sebastian Moran. Discharged from the army on the grounds of him being a bastard, firing against his own people to prevent them from cracking down on the gun trade in Afghanistan. The 20 a day smoker who is a crack shot with a sniper rifle. The bastard that sent me home with a bullet in the shoulder that could've killed me because he didn't want to get court marshalled due to selling illegal weapons to children in Afghanistan. The bastard that walked free because none of this could be proven. That Colonel Sebastian Moran!”

 

Sherlock was silent at John's sudden outburst. John noticed Sherlock's shock and he sagged a little against his head board, one hand coming to rub at his face. “Sorry. I just .. I just. It makes sense now as to how he walked if I'm honest.” John whispered.

 

“Maybe you should sleep. Rosie will be up in a few ..”

 

Loud banging and a flurry of foot steps against the stairs had John straight out of bed and Sherlock reaching for a now screaming Rosie, the noise having woken her up with a jolt. John was standing in front of the two, his Sig in his hands after grabbing it from beneath his pillow and aimed it at the door, his heart hammering, adrenaline pumping and anger surging through his veins. It was just after midnight, his daughter terrified, whoever had the nerve to break into their home and bang about better have a damned good reason before a bullet went through their eyes.

 

That was when Sargent Donovan came bursting into John's room, gun also raised. She was damn lucky John was a steady man with the gun, otherwise she'd have been shot in the pissing head. Still, John did not lower the weapon. Instead he glared his best captain glare, hearing his daughter's cries was breaking his heart. He spoke before Sherlock could even open his mouth.

 

“Sally!? What the hell!?” John had to yell over a screaming child, only now did he lower the gun. He was about to turn to take his child, just to hold her when Sally's voice stopped him.

 

“We need to ask you a few questions Doctor Watson.” John noticed the formality, and also noticed she still didn't lower her weapon. He slowly moved to place the gun on his bedside table, and raised his hands in surrender.

 

“Fine. But let me tell you this, next time Sally Donovan, you fucking call first.” John was angry.

 

“John..” Sherlock had managed to calm Rosie a little and was moving to calm John. He stopped when Sally raised the gun towards them. Big mistake.

 

“Don't you fucking dare!” John yelled, stepping in front of the gun, on hand pointing in Sally's face. He didn't care that her hand shook, he didn't care that she paled a little, and he didn't care for the officers behind her. All he cared about was that she had just pointed a gun to Sherlock who was holding his premature baby. “You ever raise a gun towards my daughter again, I will have you!”

 

“Threatening an officer Doctor Watson?” Sally replied, voice shaking but she lowered her gun anyway.

 

“No, it's a promise.” John replied in his 'captains' voice. “And I will be making a formal complaint about this, mark my words. Where's Lestrade?”

 

“Not here. He's off this case now. He's too close.” Sally moved towards John and put a hand on his arm, “You'll have to come to the station to answer a few questions.”

 

John shrugged her off and stared past her, “And you thought that bringing in everyone and their pissing grandmother was the best way to do this at three in the bloody morning.” John's anger had still not dissipated. It was better to be angry than end up a shaking wreck on the floor. After finding out about Moran, and now this, he knew he will not be sleeping tonight.

-0- 

John was led out of 221B in handcuffs when he refused point blank to leave his daughter. Mrs Hudson was a mess of tears as she held onto a tired, upset Rosie and watched as John was driven away in a police car with Sherlock following in a taxi.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got away with me I think ... Hope you enjoyed it


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some unconventional policing - slight warning

John was marched into Scotland Yard, flanked on either side. To left was Donovan, gripping his arm tightly as his hands were cuffed behind him. A second officer walked on his right, not touching him, only giving side long glances and smirking every step of the way. A few officers led the way, while the remaining that had busted in their home early that morning where walking behind, obviously to avoid any escape attempt. Like that was going to happen. John's face was like thunder, pain and anger flashing in his eyes. Donovan really did a number on his left shoulder, and he vowed to make her pay for that, as well as aiming a gun at his daughter. He silently swore to have her badge.

 

John was receiving a number of stares as he was led to the interview rooms, not straight to a cell as he had thought. He straightened and glared at anyone he could. The look on his face was enough to make them scatter quite quickly. This was going to be a long arsed night, and they still haven't told them why he was arrested in the bleeding first place. John silently hoped Sherlock was alright and his daughter. Just as he said a prayer for their safety, he was shoved into a dull looking interview room, a floor to ceiling on way mirror at the end, and shoved into a chair, he winced his his shoulder pulled again.

 

“Watch it.” John snapped, trying to get as comfortable as he could, but it was impossible. “Can you at least remove the bloody cuffs?” Again, there was no answer.

 

Donovan made her way to the chair in front of John, a desk separating them, and her college took to the one in the corner. No one said anything while Donovan set the tape to record and pulled out a couple of folders and papers that were secured in a case at her side.

 

“At least tell me why I'm here?” John said after a while. “Is this pay back for breaking the Chief Inspector's nose? Is he watching right now.” John glared at the glass. “I'd happily provide a replay if you're asking for one.”

 

“Another threat Doctor Watson?” Donovan answered. “You are currently in no position to make threats.”

 

“Oh I see, and you're in a position to point a gun at a two week old baby?” John hissed. “Has anyone been in touch with my lawyer? I'm assuming I have that right at least?”

 

“Can you tell me of your whereabouts Tuesday evening?” Donovan asked as her reply, not looking at John, but looking through the folders in her hands.

 

“Yes, I was at home feeding my child that had just turned up on the doorstep. Which can be verified by my flat mate and landlady. Now, what's all this about?” John replied, shifting and trying to take the pressure off of his shoulder.

 

“Ah yes, the mysterious little girl. Mary her mother? It must have made you so angry that she would just abandon your child like that?” Donovan looked up at John and he flinched. But still he kept quiet. The Sherlock in his head telling him to say nothing more, there was something not right about this whole thing. He had no legal representative, he was uncomfortable and in pain. He had always thought Donovan was a bitch, but he had always admired her passion for the job she did. Although, his ideas about her were quickly changing.

 

“An Army Doctor, invalid from Afghanistan due to a gunshot wound to the left shoulder, causing too much nerve damage for you to pass your physical. The limp that came with it was also a deterrent to accepting you back. The psych report mentioned anger out bursts, illusions, you reported friendly fire? You believed that someone within the British army attacked your unit because you were too close to confirming illegal activity?” Donovan continued, John remained silent, but his mind was beginning to drift elsewhere. He fought hard to remain in the present.

 

“You attacked a fellow recovering soldier during your stay in a rehabilitation unit. Such rage in you Doctor Watson, is it possible that that rage was directed towards Miss Morstan for abandoning your daughter?” Donovan smirked. “You killed her didn't you! You left the flat and hunted her down in the dead of night and killed her!” Donovan slammed a fist against the desk, John didn't flinch. He just clung to the words, Mary was murdered and they're pinning it on him. Mary was dead. Mary .. Mary was dead.

 

“No...” John whispered shaking his head. He slumped and his body began shaking and he shook his head, “no...”

 

“Liar!” Donovan threw the crime scene photos against the desk, right in John's view and he was lost. He saw Mary utterly beaten, her face bruised, her body cut and beaten, her could count the number of broken bones. She must have suffered so much. But the worse thing were her eyes. Her beautiful eyes, they were stitched closed, with perfect stitching. No wonder they though of John, giving his Doctor background.

 

He didn't hear anything in the room, he was lost in his own head. The images of Mary, and of his unit drifting into his mind, taking control of the situation. He didn't even realise he had begun to hyperventilate as the worst panic attack he has ever had since Sherlock took a nose dive off Saint Bart's roof took complete control.

 

-0-

 

Sherlock followed in the cab, his hands flying over the keys as he sent a text to his brother,

 

_John arrested, needs lawyer fast – SH_

 

_As you wish – MH._

 

Then he texted Lestrade. He needed details, he needed answers and he needed to know why Lestrade had not warned them first.

 

_John arrested. Explain! - SH_

 

_What? - Greg_

 

Sherlock growled loudly and felt like throwing his phone out of the window. So Lestrade didn't even now!? What the hell was going on.

 

_Meet me at Scotland Yard in ten minuets. Don't be late. - SH_

 

Sherlock pocketed his phone and chewed on his nail. He never chewed his nails, but he didn't have any cigarettes near by at the moment. What exactly was going on? This had to have Moriarty written all over it. It just had to be.

 

As soon as the cab reached his destination, Sherlock practically threw notes at the driver and all but jumped from the cab. Lestrade was waiting as directed.

 

“I just got the call.” Greg said as in welcome, walking in step with Sherlock. He sounded out of breath, must have ran from the Morgue. Dating Molly seems to be going well …

 

“Mary Morstan was found dead in her flat, and an anonymous tip that placed John at the scene, just after 2am Tuesday.” Greg finished, pulling open the door and let Sherlock stalk on ahead. “The Chief Inspector allowed the warrant and wanted John questioned immediately. He's with Donovan and Smith now, has he got a lawyer?”

 

Sherlock snarled and walked faster, making his way towards the interview rooms. “No.” Was all he said before trying every door he came across. The third door he opened held the chief inspector, and beyond the glass was Donovan, yelling at John. Sherlock noticed straight away John was having a PTSD episode and he stormed out, ignoring shouts from the Chief, glad that Lestrade had held the man back.

 

Sherlock stormed into the interview room, “This stops right now! Can't you see that man is having a panic attack! He suffers from PTSD and you shove pictures of his ex partner in his face, a woman who had loved is dead and this is how you tell him!” Sherlock was more than angry, he was furious. “I will have your badge for this Donovan, you mark my words! I'll have the chief's job as well, interviewing a man without so much as a lawyer in attendance and for what!?”

 

Sherlock went to John, ignoring Donovan's comments, he glared at Smith, daring him to say something, and turned back towards his friend. “John,” he called gently, his hands moved to hold John's face gently. He wasn't sure when Lestrade came by his side, but he was thankful for him, as he had released John's cuffs and stepped back. “John, look at me, it's Sherlock.” Sherlock's voice was so soft, so gentle as he brought John's face up so he can stare into the man's eyes. “You're safe John. Both you and Rosie. You're safe, I promise.” Sherlock kept talking softly, enticing John from his mind. He couldn't help but smile softly as John blink and shuddered.

 

“Sherlock?” His voice sounded broken and defeated, and Sherlock hurt. He vowed he would never hear that sound from John again. He looked up and realised it was only him and Lestrade in the room now.

 

“Mycroft and John's lawyer are in the other room,” He answered and shrugged, “They've got John's release papers and Mycroft has informed of an impending investigation of the way this was dealt with this morning, and has ensured that I am back on the case.” With that Lestrade nodded and left the room.

 

“She's gone Sherlock.” John whispered and clung to Sherlock. “They stitched her eyes shut, named her the blind banker and left her body to rot in her flat.” John's shoulders shook as he cried and Sherlock held on tightly.

 

They didn't say anything after a while, not until Sherlock's phone buzzed;

 

_My My, John can make beautiful babies. It's a shame about the babysitter. M xoxo_

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna put a warning here for mentions of suicide - very slight and tiny but still.

Sherlock's posture stiffened as John clung onto him. It was strange but John felt the anger vibrating through every inch of him. John suddenly became wide awake, pushing the thoughts of Mary aside, he'll deal with those later. Something was wrong, something to do with that damn phone. John removed himself from Sherlock and looked up at his best friend, he used one hand to wipe at his eyes and he composed himself, suddenly soldier ready.

 

“What is it?” John asked carefully, waiting for the signal. But John noticed Sherlock wasn't staring at him, but glaring at the glass, his hand gripping the phone in a death grip. John reached for Sherlock's wrist gently, the one holding the phone, Sherlock didn't budge, instead released the phone to John. Now Sherlock stared at John as he read the message and felt his own anger flare. But on top of it all was a great and powerful fear. Nothing that he had ever felt before, and it almost brought him to his knees. It would have done if Sherlock hadn't grabbed a hold of him in time.

 

“Mycroft has men descending on Baker Street this very second,” Sherlock said to John. His voice was calm, how could he be so damn calm! But then again, one of them needed to be after all.

 

John took deep calming breaths and stood straight, “Let's go.” He didn't wait for a reply, instead he stormed from the interview room and down the hall, were he bumped into the Chief Inspector.

 

“Oi!” The man dared to stop John in his tracks, a hand laid to rest against his chest. John glared. “you're not going anywhere...” The man's sentence ended with a cry of pain, as John took the offending hand off of his chest and twisted until the wrist broke. The chief Inspector ended on his knees.

 

“This is all your fault!” John hissed, ignoring the pounding of rushed steps behind him and Greg's call for calm. “If you had only just used your pissing brain then I would have been at home in bed, while my little girl slept in the cot beside me. I would have been there to protect her. But no!” John twisted the wrist again, “Because of you and your stupidity, some psychopath has my daughter and may have possibly injured my landlady, who I am rather fond of I'll have you know!” John was pulled away before he could do more damage by Greg, whoo had shoved him into Sherlock's arms.

 

“Get him home! I'll follow.” Greg had yelled as John was yet again dragged away, Sherlock holding him back but keeping him steady as they went.

 

The trip back to Baker Street took too long in John's opinion. Sherlock was click clacking away on his phone, his posture and face remained calm, but John could see a slight tremble in his hands as he texted. There was no report from Mycroft as of yet, which annoyed John to no end, but he breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down. John focused on Sherlock, his trembling hands and his bouncing knee. It was a reflex really, he reached out and rested a gentle hand onto Sherlock's knee and gave it a gentle squeeze, but said nothing.

 

Then they were home and they both rushed out of the cab and straight into Mrs Hudson's home, not really assessing the situation. John didn't hold back, he ran straight in and looked in every room he could, not finding Rosie his panic began to rise. Finally, in the living room was Sherlock, leaning over an unconscious Mrs Hudson, his hand holding her wrist, checking her pulse.

 

“She's alive, an ambulance will be ..” The noise upstairs had Sherlock stopping mid sentence. Then John had heard it, a cry. A baby's cry. His daughter.

He ignored Sherlock and went running up the stairs and slammed into 221B Baker street, only to be welcomed by two mad men and the cowering agents.

 

“Hello Johnny Boy,” Moriarty cooed, sitting in Sherlock's chair no less. Moran was by the window, rocking a twisty Rosie. He was holding her gently, watching her closely. John's instinct was to go straight to her. “Ah, ah, ah.” Moriarty tutted, making John stop but not taking his eyes away from his daughter. “I think Seb here has become quite attached.

 

“What do you want?” He heard Sherlock ask. He hadn't even noticed the man enter the flat. And by Moriarty and Moran's reactions, neither did they.

 

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Moriarty pouted and pulled himself up slowly, his eyes stuck on Sherlock, but John could see the rage that burnt behind them. “You had appeared to become quite attached to that wailing thing over there, in what? A week!” Moriarty screeched the last part, making Rosie wail a little more, John inched closer, dying to hold her.

 

“Bugging the place Jim, really?” Sherlock replied. How the hell that man can be so calm annoyed John to no end. “Now, I ask again. What do you want?”

 

“You killed my brother!” Moriarty screeched, his anger escaping him, making him lose his composure. John would never admit it out loud, but Jim's changeable attitude terrified him.

 

“No, actually. He killed himself.. He probably knew what you were up to and rescheduled our little meeting. He was suicidal anyway, sentiment.” Sherlock shrugged, John flinched as Jim growled, Rosie wailed and the two agents rose from their knees, one in front of John, blocking his view of Rosie and raised his gun, the other in front of Sherlock The difference was that as soon as Jim pointed towards Sherlock, the agent fired and Sherlock went down with a gasp.

 

“Sherlock!” John went to move, but again he was stopped. He felt torn. “I swear to you Jim, to you both. I will kill you.” John growled and the he moved. He grabbed the agent's wrist, twisted the gun from his grasp and used him as a human shield against Agent Number Two as he fired. With his shield, he shot a head shot to agent number two and pushed the other away from him. He raised his gun to Sebastian Moran, a fire in his eyes.

 

“Put. Her. Down.” John growled. Jim laughed and Moran didn't move. So John aimed the gun and Jim and fired without looking. The hiss Jim gave and the flinch of Moran, John knew he reached his mark Grazing him just as he was meant to. “I said. Put. Her. Down. Or the next one goes between his eyes.” The silence was thick in the air, suddenly broken by distant sirens and Jim's moaning of pain.

 

“Seb. Do as he says, we're done here. I have what I need.” Jim hissed in pain. Sebastian lowered Rosie on the couch, inched away from John and went straight to Jim. John followed them, gun poised and ready to fire as the two mad men escaped from the flat. John was unsure how long he stood there for, but Rosie's wailing brought him back to himself. He reached for her and held her close as he went to Sherlock's still form, blood seeping from the gun shot wound to his chest.

 

Just then the door down stairs went and feet thundered against the stairs. “Sherlock's been shot!” John said in greeting as Mycroft burst through the door.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some violence, not to Rosie, but I must note that she's not well. I don't know how else to warn you all about this chapter. It's a little dark.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this, let me know if you like it so far, will try and update as much and as quickly as I can going forwards x

The trip to the hospital was uneventful to say the least. John had decided to ride with Sherlock, Mrs Hudson having to take the second ambulance with Mycroft following behind in his black sedan. No doubt Lestrade will be following that. What a funny little convoy they would have made. John couldn't stop the thought once it entered and he held a sleeping Rosie in his arms.

 

When they finally reached the hospital, Sherlock's heart had only stopped the once. But they had it beating again, to the utter relief of John. Sherlock was in surgery as Mrs Hudson was wheeled in, followed by Mycroft and Anthea. John heading straight towards the pair, noticing Anthea was not attached to her phone, but instead linking an arm protectively around Mycroft's arm, walking at his side and close enough to comfort. Maybe the politician did have a heart after all.

 

“Mycroft.” John held his quiet, sleeping daughter close to him. “Sherlock's in surgery and I need the best paediatrician that you have and that you trust with Anthea's niece. Rosie was with those two sick bastards and I need to know she's okay. She's too quiet, to tired and too warm.” John didn't falter, he was in soldier mode. He couldn't lose it, not now. The people he cared most about, the people that he loves are injured by a mad man. Silently he vows to make sure the next bullet hits Moriarty between the eyes.

 

Mycroft nodded, and Anthea disconnected an arm from him but stayed close as she got her mobile and her fingers flew across the keys. “Follow me Doctor Watson.” She looked up, warmth in her eyes for a second, then turned to Mycroft, squeezed his arm gently and led John down the corridor, to a private room. “Doctor Harrison will be by shortly, he's Lisa's doctor. I would trust him with my life. And hers.”

 

John nodded once and looked around the room. It was spacious, a child's cot by the window, a rocking chair close by and monitors if needed. Very clean, very respectable and way above John's pay grade. “Does Mycroft have an abundance of private rooms for any and all occasions?” He asked as a joke and turned to Anthea. She winked, but said nothing as she left the room. John shook his head and sighed, placing Rosie in the cot bed gently. He placed a hand to her head and frowned at the temperature. He placed his other hand against her chest lightly, making sure her breathing was clear. It was. But still, something wasn't right.

 

It felt like an age before someone finally entered the room. He appeared to be on the shorter side with greying hair and the kindest eyes. He was on the chubbier side but he held himself well, and the smile he held as he saw John was enough to relax him, but only very slightly.

 

“I'm sure Anthea or Mycroft has told you about the situation?” He asked, placing one hand against the cot bed, turning to put himself in the way of his daughter. No matter how kind the man looked, John was taking no chances.

 

“Anthea has given me the history yes.” He stopped in his approach and waiting for confirmation from John. “I'm Doctor Harrison.” He held out a hand, again he waited, letting John make the move, allowing him some form of control over the situation.. John felt 8immediate respect for the man in front of him. John stepped forward and shook the offered hand and stood slightly to the side, but still close enough to the cot so that he ensured his daughter always remained in his line of sight. He was beginning to wish he had brought his gun with him, just for the comfort.

 

Doctor Harrison made his way to Rosie, checking her breathing, taking her temperature. At one point, he took a blood sample, which made John stiffen and inch closer, but still Rosie didn't stir. John was panicking, trying to keep calm, his leg began to ache and his left hand began to shake. It wasn't right! Doctor Harrison had checked all vitals and checked Rosie's eye reactions as she slept and he frowned.

“It appears she may have had a mild sedative, but to know for sure I need to get the samples assessed. But other than that, she's perfectly healthy. Am I right in assuming she's a premature baby?” He asked as he stepped away to allow John to stand back at her side.

 

“Yes. She's three weeks old now, but she shouldn't have been born for another five weeks at the most.” John reached over and stroked the little blonde hair, hardly visible but definitely blonde.

 

“At eight weeks early, she's doing well. I'll get the bloods assessed and get back to you as soon as possible, but by the looks of things, she'll be sleeping for a while yet. The temperature is not too much but I'll get a nurse to give her something for it anyway. I'll make sure she's monitored and have Mycroft or Anthea assess each nurse and doctor before they enter this room.” With that Doctor Harrison left and John relaxed a little.

 

Over the next hour or so, John watched as people came and went, attaching wires to his daughter and watching the machines, John knew each wire did something to help his daughter but was still rather unnerving to see. He wondered how Mary had felt when she was born, she should have been attached to some machinery to help in the first few days of her life. Maybe Mary knew what her fate had been so that was why she had abandoned Rosie. It made more sense that the daft excuse she had left in the note.

 

The results from Rosie's bloods did show a very mild sedative, only strong enough to make John dizzy if he had been given it, but enough to get a child sleeping. The temperature was the side effect, and nothing life threatening was found. John could relax. He made sure that the people coming and going kept him up to date with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. He hated leaving them on his own, but he dare not leave his daughter, not now, not ever.

 

John jumped when he heard the door squeak quietly, a nurse had just been in to check Rosie's stats, she shouldn't be due another check so soon. John turned and stiffened, he hadn't seen this guy before and he looked a little too threatening to be in a children's ward. John swallowed hard, and before he could react, the guy had pulled out a gun and fired. John expected to feel the heat and the burn of a bullet, but instead he felt a sting in his neck, as if he had been stung by a bee. His hand shot up to his neck and pulled out a dart. He was furious. He could feel the drug taking effect but he will not let his daughter go!

 

He lunged forwards, shocking the man in front of him and let his fists fly. If he could knock the guy out then ring the alarm before he passed out then Rosie would be safe. His hits were a little of and sloppy as the drug was taking effect, but he connected. The man appeared to have recovered from his shock and swung at John, landing a hard punch to his face, John felt his nose break. He went down, and he struggled. He grabbed at the man's legs and pulled, the man kicked back, hitting John on the side of his face. His head snapped back, his cheek burned and blackness surrounded him.

 

The unknown man carefully disconnected the wires from the sleeping child and picked her up, grinning as he took his prize and fled the hospital. No one stopped him, no one noticed him and John was not found for another hour, when the nurse had came back to check on Rosie's stats.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you for keeping with me on this one, I do hope you're all still interested in this. Not yet close to finishing but I will get there. 
> 
> I must point out that there is some small mentions of child abuse in this chapter. Very small, but it's there so I've updated the tags as well. 
> 
> I know it may appear to be slow going and not much is happening yet, but there will be shortly.
> 
> please, enjoy and I will try to get another chapter up over the next few days, but R/L is so busy right now <3 x

John was out cold, suffering from a broken nose, concussion and a fractured cheek bone. Not only that, the doctors surrounding him had to use a small incision around the left eye to extract some of the build up of fluid, but John's face was still very swollen. Blood tests were done and it was all but a waiting game. Mycroft was furious to say the least. His younger brother was just out of surgery, drifting in and out of consciousness always asking for John and Rosie. His brother has become too sentimental, and people are realising. Not only that, but Mrs Hudson had refused to be discharged without 'her boys'. 'Her boys' indeed! The day was not going well, and Mycroft was foaming at the mouth with anger. But he still looked calm, resting against his umbrella, standing watch outside his brother's room. You would only be able to see the anger in his eyes if you were close enough, but no one would ever get close enough.

 

His people were distributed, hospital staff were questioned, CCTV was confiscated, but still nothing. Rosie and her capture had vanished into thin air, so it would seem, and this is what made Mycroft so damned furious. No one gets passed him and his surveillance and lives to tell the tail.

 

-0-

 

Sherlock came round slowly, pain building but it was manageable. More like a dull ache really. Morphine was a lovely drug. Though, with his tolerance, he would surely need a top up soon. He had always wondered what it would be like to be shot, often asking John how it felt. Well, now he knew, and he hated it!

 

His throat was dry, his body ached, his memory was a little fuzzy, but he knew enough.

 

“John?” his voice was harsh from misuse. A soft gasp beside him had him turning to the sound and found Mrs Hudson by his side. He smiled gently, reached out a hand to take her shaking one, she looked fine at least, apart from some bruising to the right side of her face. “You're OK.” Sherlock smiled, or tried to anyway. Mrs Hudson sniffed, holding back tears no doubt, but she was a strong woman, Sherlock knew.

 

After a moment, she reached for a cup with a straw, allowing Sherlock to drink. “Where's John? Rosie?” He asked after he had taken a small sip. Mrs Hudson and stiffened and placed the cup back down, with nothing in her hands, she placed them on her knees, fiddling with the material of a hospital gown. But still stared at Sherlock, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

 

“Oh Sherlock.” She whispered. Shaking her head. He was about to move, but a jolt of pain stopped him and Mrs Hudson instantly reached a hand out to hold his own, gripping it tightly. He could feel her hand shake and he dreaded what would come out of her mouth next. “I've heard little news at the moment,” she began, knowing Sherlock would detest any break or crying or snivelling. She kept to the facts as she knew them, keeping her face open and honest so Sherlock could read what he could, even in his dazed state. “But he came in with us, but with you in surgery and myself being treated, mild concussion you know, he got Rosie checked out by someone who Mycroft would trust with Anthea's niece. Such a sweet girl that she is. Rosie appeared to have been given a sedative. Nothing too dangerous for her age, she just needed to sleep it off and she's be fine. Will be fine. But ..” Mrs Hudson froze then, using a free hand to wipe a stray tear.

 

Again Sherlock shifted, ignoring the pain, “Mrs Hudson..” He managed through gritted teeth.

 

“Erm, yes. Yes of course. Well, she was taken. John tried to protect but he was hit with some drug or other, his face .. Oh Sherlock. He's currently being treated but he won't wake up. They're not sure what he's been drugged with. Mycroft has ordered bloods to be analysed but we have nothing back yet.” Mrs Hudson finished, just as the door opened and Mycroft walked in.

Sherlock felt tired, drained and weak, he was about to tell his brother to leave, but he saw the fire in those eyes and swallowed hard. He used his other hand to grab the remote for the bed and lift it up a little more, wincing as he moved with the bed.

 

“Have you found her?” He hissed, not taking his eyes from his brother.

 

“Not yet, but we will. And whoever is responsible for this will not live to see the next sunrise.” Mycroft stated as he came to stand by Sherlock's bed. Sherlock nodded, he has only seen his brother in such a rage once. Only once and he had vowed to Sherlock that he would always protect him and never allow him to see such anger again, unless it was absolutely necessary.

 

“Just like father?” Sherlock asked, searching for Mycroft's answer before he said it. He needed that acknowledgement, somehow he was a young boy again, feeling the boot, the fist and then the belt of his father. Almost dying at those hands when Mycroft saved him. Such rage from his older brother, so much like Father's but Sherlock knew that rage would always be used to protect him, never to hurt him.

 

“Yes.” Was all Mycroft said, and shifted a little. Mrs Hudson had clung to Sherlock's other hand and squeezed gently. “On the other hand, Doctor Watson's blood results have returned. It's a strange mixture of things, and doctors are working endlessly to counter act the effects. It appears that someone has stolen the idea for a new truth drug, and mixed it with a very strong sedative. So when he does come around, he may still be under the influence, and he will be in withdrawal stages. This new drug has additive elements.”

 

“How else is the government going to extract the truth from its enemies!?” Sherlock retorted and scowled at his brother. But all his energy was wiped. His breathing had become harsh, almost gasping through constant pain, he needed rest. Which Mrs Hudson could tell as she had increased the morphine just slightly and had called for a nurse to induce a sedative. God bless that woman, Sherlock thought as he slowly slipped back into his own darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, let me know what you think <3 x


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: torture!
> 
> Thank you to all reading this, and I apologies for taking so long to update. Real life is a bitch sometimes. 
> 
> And thank you for the comments and kudos, hope you're still liking this.

John and Sherlock had been wheeled into the same, private hospital room. This was against hospital regulations, but with the hefty donation the hospital had just received, they were in no position to argue. Sherlock was not fully recovered, but he forced himself to lay awake until John had come around. The blonde man was still out cold on the bed beside him, and Sherlock couldn't help but take a note of the injuries John had sustained. A broken nose, fractured cheek bone and concussion, Sherlock noted with a grimace. His face was black, blue, purple and yellow in places. It appears to be swollen considerably, with few stitches around the left eye. 'Must have been drained of gathering fluid', Sherlock thought and grimaced once again.

 

It was not long till John woke with a groan. “Rosie?” He murmured, sitting up right with a jolt and a cry. “Rosie!” He yelled.

 

“John!” Sherlock snapped as much as he could in his condition, getting his friend to focus on him instead.

 

John turned slowly, his face blank, “Sherlock?” He shifted but he couldn't quite move, his body will not co-operate and a shiver brought him back down to lie against the pillows. “Someone's taken our daughter Sherlock and I bet you my soul that Moriarty was involved in some way the bastard.” John muttered. “I will kill him with my bare hands if I have to, but I will kill him. I will kill them all. I will burn them ..”

 

“John!” Sherlock snapped this time, gaining his best friends attention. “You are not Moriarty, you are nothing like them. Mycroft has promised, and ..” Sherlock blinked for a second, turned John's words over in his head and frowned in confusion. “Our daughter?”

 

The silence was deafening. “Of course. You took her in just as much as I did, you've become smitten with the poor girl. I may be her biological father, but she is still our daughter.” another shiver ran through him just as the hospital door opened and Mycroft entered the room, mobile outstretched towards John, his face so full of anger, fire and ice. “Now I see why they call you the Ice man Mycroft.” John whispered, taking the phone without any further question. It appeared to be for him after all.

 

“Hello?” John asked as he took the phone, Sherlock sitting up and watching intently, ignoring his brother as he watched John stiffen, the grip on phone tightening. If only he could hear the other end of the conversation.

 

“I take it this is all about Sherlock!” John hissed, anger in his voice, “if you so much as..” John paused for a second, anger never leaving his face. “Me? Why has this got to do with … What!? … I don't … Fine! You want a trade I will give you one. Return Rosie to the hospital and I'll leave with you … Of course there's no tricks, I'm still suffering from the pissing truth serum idiot! … What? .. yes I do … What do you mean Say ,.. FINE! I love Sherlock! There! Now, as you said … hello. Hello? Hello!!” With that, John threw the phone against the wall in a fit of rage, the scream escaping him full on anguish and despair Sherlock shifted slightly.

 

“John?” He asked, just as Mycroft was moving towards him.

 

“Don't” John's voice stilled the pair of them. “They're doing a trade. This is about me, the killings, the kidnapping, everything. Moriarty was just a pawn, he has his own score to settle with you Sherlock so you'd better be bloody careful. Once he's dealt with then you come and find me OK, not before. Someone will have to ensure Rosie is safe and protected and unharmed. No arguing. If this is not done they will kill her.”

 

-0-

 

John was wheeled to the front of the hospital, his body shivering and it wasn't from the cold. His face was killing him, his stomach felt heavy and empty all at the same time and he felt sick. He knew what was coming and he knew he couldn't prevent it. He was unconscious for the effects of the serum but his body remembered. His body wanting more, refusing the logic of John's mind and his will power. His body was betraying as it always does.

 

Leaving the room was easy, he refused to look at Sherlock, he couldn't see the pain in his friends eyes. He refused. But then Sherlock had to bloody ask.

 

“You love me?” He had asked, and Mycroft had stilled in pushing John out the room, forcing him to answer.

 

“Of course I do you prick. You're my best friend, my only friend. You saved me when I was half dead. You showed me what I was missing and brought me back from the brink. You're amazing and wonderful and I love you.”

 

“But you're not gay.” Sherlock could only reply.

 

John sighed, still refusing to look at his best friend as his own heart ached. “I'm not no. I don't know what I am. You love whoever it is you love, does it really matter what they look like? I thought you of all people hated labels?” John sighed. “If we don't go now, we'll be late.” And he left.

 

Thinking back on that short conversation made John want to cry but he couldn't. Their daughter needed him now, and true to the caller's word, a car had pulled up at the pick up point of the hospital. John was wheeled to the car and Mycroft stepped back as two men came to help John into the back seat. No words were spoken as John was driven away. He turned to look out of the back window in time to see Rosie passed to Mycroft, and then there was nothing as he felt a jab in his neck. Darkness surrounded him and he slipped into blissful unconsciousness once more.

 

-0-

 

John was unaware of how much time had passed when he came to. His arms were chained above his head, the chain looping over a link in the ceiling and down the wall. He couldn't really take in much of the place, it was damp, cold and dungeon like. He must be in a cellar of some kind. His knees were beginning to ache but he felt too weak to stand. His head was spinning, his stomach was churning and he was sure he will end up spilling his breakfast all over himself. He tried taking deep breaths which did not help at all, he groaned instead, trying to take in everything but gave up when his head began to protest.

 

There was a sound of a door opening and closing behind him, a few sets of footsteps coming closer, one stopping just short of himself, the other sets going around behind him. He assumed one was gathering the chain from a hook in the wall. John was right as he felt his arms being pulled, bringing his legs up just so his toes scraped across the concrete floor. It was then that he realised he was only in his boxers, nothing else covering him and again he groaned. A laugh caught his attention but he kept his head down to his chest, if he tried to lift it up, he would defiantly be sick.

 

“Welcome Johnny boy.” Said the voice and John instantly recognised it from the phone call. John growled but said nothing. The feet came closer, a hand in his hair and Johns head was forced to look into deep blue eyes. He hissed in pain as his hair was pulled. “Don't you recognise me? Well of course you don't. You wouldn't even know me from Adam I suppose. But maybe you know of Charlotte Green?” John flinched at the name and his body stiffened. “Care to tell me about her?”

 

John couldn't stop herself. “Major Charlotte Green, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Second in command of my unit. Died in action.” John muttered, his eyes owed.

 

“How?” came the voice and again, John answered without wanting to. He has lost all control of his voice.

 

“We were on a mission to seek and destroy a Taliban nest. People who would traffic British children, strap them to Semtex and force them into bitch compounds and detonate. We had excellent Intel on one of those nests and our mission was to destroy the lot. It didn't go well, we had a leak in command and our position was compromised. I ordered to evacuate but it was too late. We were captured and tortured over a week. There was ten of us, and only three of us survived the week. We were released into the desert and shot. Two bled out into the sand before the evac team found us. I survived. Charlotte had not survived the torture.”

 

John went silent and limp as the hand released his hair, his head dropping back to his chest. John's shoulders shook, but not due to cold or the want of more serum. But due to tears that fell for his fallen comrades.

 

“but there's more. My sister spoke of you a lot in her letters. She looked up to you. She even liked you, but something to do with formalities and crap were she would not be able to court with a commanding officer, but that didn't stop you, did it Watson? Still had your way with her didn't you! Making her feel special only to let her die!” The voice hissed, the hand was in his hair again, “well, now I shall have my vengeance, but not before I have my fun!”

 

The man stepped back and he disappeared from view. It was only a few seconds later that John felt the crack of the whip against his naked back, the burning sensation of his skin break apart and he yelled out in pain as the whip lashed against his back the second time. A third. Fourth, fifth, John was lost to agony and lost count. He could feel the warmth of blood seeping over his back each time the whip connected with such force against his skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're still with me on this. Please leave a comment/Kudos, let meknow what you think :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed a bit of discrepancy so I tried to fix it here. 
> 
> WARNING, WARNING, WARNING - Torture!!
> 
> It was hard to write, so please take care x
> 
> (Edited: 02/01/2018)

John was left to crumble on the floor after the whip had struck his back no less than ten times. His screams had whittled down to small grunts after the third strike, not wanting to give this man any sick pleasure. He felt the blood sticking and drying to his back as his body lay against the cold floor, shivering and trembling. He saw the feet come back into view and heard the rasping of breath, but John refused to look into the man's eyes. He will not give him the pleasure of seeing him in such pain, because it fucking hurt!

 

“Tell me, did you know the leak?” He asked, and again John felt compelled to answer.

 

“Yes. It was Colonel Sebastian Moran. He was running a drug, weapon and child trade within the country, and the tip off with one of the nests was one of his own. He couldn't allow us to get so close because that would mean the end of him, or something like that anyway. I'm not so sure any more, but I remember him being there. He was the one who initiated the torture on my team, he was the one to have burnt the bodies before the surviving three, and he was the one to shoot us on the desert. His sniper skill unprecedented. No one could match him and he knew it. Probably still knows it the smug bastard.”

 

The other man scoffed. “Yes, but you led them to their deaths and you survived when she should have done. You used her for your own needs.” The other hissed and gave a kick to John's stomach, making him curl in on himself in pain. “How did you manage to survive!?”

 

“Because Moran was a complete moron, he gave us back our tags and clothing, including radios. Which were in good working order. Which was how I knew we were dead when they said they would free us. They cut loose our bonds and led us to the desert and set us free. We ran, all three of us ran for it. I saw the first one go down after five seconds, Bill not long after and he fell right before me so I went down with him, shifting my position just slightly. The bullet meant for my heart, went into and out of my left shoulder instead. I knew I had to remain still and appear dead, the Taliban would not have known to check for the pulse and Sebastian was too far away to check himself, so I remained still and silent, eyes closed not daring to look until the sun set and night fell. I knew they wouldn't be stupid enough to stay out during the night. It was too cold. So when it fell, I radioed for evacuation and kept my radio on so they could triangulate the single. I gathered the other two together and huddled with them. They were dead but the least I could do was ensure they got home. The rest is down to exceptional hospital staff and army medics. I was sure I was dead. Came close too."

 

John went silent, realising tears were falling as he was forced to remember those nights, those horrendous nights that haunt his dreams. He lost his only friends that week, and he lost someone he cared about greatly and he cried for them. The kick to his chest was not what he was expecting and again he curled in on himself, coughing up a lung.

 

The sound of more feet rushing to his side caught his attention, the order to clean him up barley registered with him. He knew that shuffling, he recognised the voice that replied in the affirmative and he definitely knew the sounds of a bed being wheeled in.

 

“Mike?” John asked, not caring who else was in the room. But there was no answer as he was once again hoisted up on the chain, and maneuvered so his body could rest against the bed, his back towards the one he had called friend. “I know that shuffle anywhere, and that voice.”

 

“What of it?” Mike replied. John felt rough hands against his back, cleaning and covering with gauze, but no stitching.

 

“What? How did you get here?” John asked, his body refusing to lie still, convulsions hitting him when he least expected it and he was beginning to sweat. Not good.

 

“I have my own reasons John, none of which concern you. Well, actually, maybe they do.” Mike pressed a little too hard against one of the cuts on John's back, and he hissed through the pain, his body stiffening up once more. “Back in university I made a promise to a very close friend of mine, that no matter what happens, I will always be there for him and his family. They got me into Med school when my parents died and they gave me meaning to keep going. I owe him and his sister everything John and that's why I am here. I am fulfilling a promise I made years ago, I know it may be morally wrong but I have no choice,” Mike backed up once he had finished and wiped his hands on a cloth that was provided to him. “It's this or they take my family," Mike whispered before he left the room, leaving John a shivering mess.

 

it could have been 10 minuets, or ten seconds, John wasn't so sure any more when he heard further footsteps and scraping sounds against the floor. The chains were pulled and John yelled as he was once again forced to stand, his toes scraping against the concrete floor. The bed was removed and John was lowered to a chair, the chains removed from his wrists and he was tied to the arms of the chair. It appeared to be a funny sort of contraption. At the end of the chair arms were plates carved into hands. John noticed that they were perfect to fit his hands against them with his fingers outstretched. Which is what the people around him had forced him to do, each finger was then held against the contraption with its own metal clamp. John couldn't move either fingers now that he was clamped down for a better term.

 

He lifted his head and raised an eyebrow to his would be torturer, but no words were coming and John could not quite understand. But then again, maybe whoever this guy was intended to break his fingers? Which would hurt for a while and could have ever lasting effects, depending on how they were treated afterwards. What he was not expecting to see was a collection of wooden tooth picks, sharpened more so at one end, and a small hammer. Suddenly realisation dawned and John struggled relentlessly.

 

The first wooden spike entered the space between John's nail and the skin, the hammer taking it right down to the nail bed. John screamed in pain. It was complete agony and just as he was getting used to the throbbing pain, a wooden stick was hammered home in the next nail. John struggled for all he was worth, his throat sore with yelling. He has gone from screaming to swearing to spouting threats and curse words. Anything he could think of. He has never had this before, but he had seen it done to other's, it fucking hurt more than the whips. He would prefer that. Fuck, he would prefer being shot again.

 

 

The nails to his right hand were throbbing, and he was expecting the left next. But no. No that's not what happened at all. With a laugh of pure delight, his torturer took the hammer to each of John's fingers on his left hand, breaking every bone in each finger and the hand. John wept and at the end, passed out from the pain. Hoping against hope that Sherlock find him soon, if they do not splint up his left hand soon, his medical license would be invalid. His career as an army surgeon ended the moment he was shot, but he was able to still practice medicine. But if the damage to his hand was not fixed up soon, he wouldn't be able to so much as write a prescription, never mind stitching up a wound. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild warning here.
> 
> \---
> 
> Happy new year!! 
> 
> Sorry about the delay, I've been getting battered by real life at the moment and I'm struggling to find the time to get a chapter posted. I will try but I'm not sure when the next one will be, but thank you for waiting and sticking with me :)

It was some while later when John awoke. Another hour or two had passed while he was out cold in the chair. His many aches and pains where making themselves very clear right now and he couldn't help a groan and a soft sob that escaped him. His body shivered and his mind felt sluggish. One good thing about the truth serum was that it dulled the pain. If only he could have some of that now. He needed it. He was desperate, he may do just about anythi … 'No!' the logic in his mind supplied. 'Stop it, you're fine. You'll be fine.'

 

Then the door opened, something wheeled in just behind the measured steps of someone he was sure he had seen before, but not while he was captured here. “Oh Johnny boy, oh Johnny boy.” came an Irish lilt and John stiffened, his head raising ever so slowly as he met Jim's gaze, and suddenly a murderous calm settled over John. He was sure he would die here, but at least he could take Jim with him.

 

Jim must have seen something in John's eyes, because his steps had faulted for half a second before continuing on. “Dear Jim,” John replied with a forced smile, death hidden behind it's meaning, “please fix it for me to enact my revenge on the one who caused my sister's death.”

 

“Just so.” Jim sniggered. “So, how are ..”

 

“But you couldn't quite possibly bring forward the real culprit could you.” John continued, staring his death glare straight at Jim, his smile never wavering, his gaze never flickering. “Of course not. You would lose your right hand man. The real man behind the death of his sister. Or is that you? Not so keen on the suicide yourself? You must be so set apart from your brother then.”

 

John's head snapped back with such force behind Jim's fist. “That's enough!” He all but screeched. “I have something set aside for Sherlock in regards to that, and you're going to help me.” Jim's hand rested softly against John's cheek, bringing his face back towards Jim's very own.

 

That was when John noticed it. A camera, recording live just behind that Westwood wearing psychopath. John's eyes widened and he struggled against his bounds, there was no way he would be used against Sherlock, not again. He couldn't. But it was useless. Whatever they were planning, it appeared that the game had changed.

 

-0-

 

It had been almost five hours, thirty seven minuets and twenty nine seconds. Not that Sherlock was counting anyway. He was sat up in his hospital bed, holding on to a sleeping Rosie and watching her facial expressions as she dreamed. A blank slate, just ready to be written on with everything that makes her, her. And her father was not around right now to see the little twitches she makes as she snores lightly. The curl of the fingers as she dreams. He would never in his lifetime understand it.

 

He had ordered everyone from his room once John had left, even Mycroft when he returned with Rosie. He did advise that she was fine, no more sedatives remained in her system and she was resting peacefully, ass all new born children tend to do.

 

There had been no word from Moriarty, nor from John's kidnappers. Everything was silent and Sherlock hated it. He needed to get out of this hospital bed and he needed to find John, then find Jim. In that order, despite what the stubborn git had said.

 

Jim obviously wanted revenge for his brother's suicide, which is pointless and too sentimental for Jim, but that is the course. Jim blames Sherlock, and Sherlock knows it's not just about his brother. It has to be about being beaten at his own game. As always. So that's one thing why John would've been taken, and to get to him, he got to Rosie. Which was why he was at the flat before he had shot Sherlock. Ensuring a possible way to burn Sherlock twice over, and making sure he saw how Sherlock reacted to the two most important people in his life being threatened. Three if Mrs Hudson was counted in.

 

But there was no other word. Plus, John had said this was about him. The murders and the kidnapping, and Jim was just a pawn in the whole scheme of things. But why? Why John?

 

Sherlock sighed, he needed more data!

 

That was when Lestrade walked in with Molly behind him, looking as nervous as she always did. Sherlock kept his gaze on Rosie, making sure he catalogued everything so he would know when she breathed out of turn.

 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade started and made his way over. A hand ran through his silver hair and he heaved a sigh. “We've got nothing. Even with Mycroft's resources, we can't find him.”

 

Sherlock sighed heavily and looked up, his heat ache showing on his face and he heard Molly gasp.

 

“The autopsies revealed nothing either. I'm sorry Sherlock.” She supplied, moving closer. Sherlock in instinct actually held Rosie out to Molly to enable her take a hold. She shifted on her feet but finally took the child and moved to the other side of the bed, allowing Rosie to still be within reach and sight, Molly knew Sherlock a little too well.

 

“But you've found something.” Sherlock answered, his eyes flickering over to Lestrade. “What is it?”

 

“Well, just John's army records really. They were pretty much blank but from what John has told me before, I was able to fill in the blanks and we may have some leads to follow. I wanted to run it by you first. I feel like I'm grasping at straws here.” Lestrade sighed and took a seat by Sherlock. “John has told me once or twice that he and a unit under his command would run special ops, top secrete and all that jazz. Finding and securing criminals of war, drug and weapons trade, child trafficking, you name it, him and his team would take it down. One mission went wrong. Him and his team were captured and killed, leaving him the only survivor. The mission report is blank, just that it went wrong, the team was assumed killed in action and then a few days later John radioed in for evacuation and he was found shot in the desert with two others, the rest of team was found burned in an abandoned village.”

 

Molly gasped and held Rosie a little closer, protective instinct. She'd make a good mother one day. The deduction flew through Sherlock's mind without warning, just before his initial one took hold, his hands grasping the sheets tightly.

 

“You're wanting to run a check on any close family members? You think they're seeking revenge?” Sherlock asked and Lestrade shrugged.

 

“It's all we've got. Mycroft dismissed it.”

 

“Do it.” Was all Sherlock said as Mycroft entered the room, holding a brown envelope in his hand and a look of utter murder on his face. “Molly, would you mind taking Rosie out of the room for just a moment please.” He said, his calm demeanor never waving but his eyes not giving her a chance to argue. She did as was asked, giving Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze, and Lestrade a quick kiss on her way out.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock was suddenly pale, his hands shaking as his eyes dropped to the envelope in his brother's hand.

 

“It's addressed to you brother dear. I've had it scanned and it's not an explosive but a DVD. I have requested a television to be brought in, so that we can view it together. You won't be alone in this.” Mycroft said, his tone softening due to the look of pure fear on Sherlock's face.

 

“I ain't leaving either.” Lestrade piped up, gazing hard at Mycroft and crossing his arms against his chest as if daring him to make a move. Mycroft only nodded as a television set was wheeled in and the door made secure.

 

“Lets get this over with.” Sherlock whispered, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat and he steeled himself, cutting off all emotions and becoming a shell on the outside, if only to be able t gather as much details in the DVD without sentiment getting in the way.

 


End file.
